Hot, Warm, Cool, Cold
by Yombatable
Summary: England loved. He loved many. And He loved too much. But even still he loved them all differently. Britaincest. One-Shot.


**I STILL FEEL BAD FOR NOT POSTING ANYTHING SO HAVE THIS AS WELL! Britaincest this time, so enjoy whatever this shit is. It's kinda random, but whatev's.**

 **Enjoy! ;)**

* * *

England loved. He loved many. And He loved too much. But even still he loved them all differently.

* * *

 ** _He loved Scotland hot._**

* * *

 _He loved Scotland with a burning intensity, which slammed them into walls before they could make it even marginally close to a bed._

England's back was shoved crushingly into the wall behind him, getting no time to recover before lips were back on his, and a tongue was back in his mouth, and there was heat consuming him, with a burning and deliberate desperation.

 _He loved him with every burning breath they exchanged through twisting lips._

Their breaths came out in harsh pants, hot. So _hot_ , they felt like they were searing the skin with every tiny puffed groan, or loudly exhaled moan. Searing.

Searing...

Burning...

HOT!

"Scotland! Fuck! _God, Scotland, please_!"

And Scotland growled and the air was hotter, too hot, too heavy, too _much_! But still _not enough_! Not enough at all, he wanted more, more heat, more weight, just more, _more, MORE._

"Fuck you! _Please, oh god please_ don't make me wait anymore!" England heard begging, but he didn't quite register it as his own until his trousers were gone and he was choking out in pleasure as Scotland ground their dicks together. Yes, this was heat, this was what he needed, this was it, yes, _oh god yes_.

 _He loved him with nail marks down his back, and teeth in his skin, and legs tied firmly around his waist._

"Shit, I hate you," Scotland choked, against his neck, and England felt his fingers tightening in the flesh of Scotland's back as he was hoisted up, wrapping his legs crushingly around his hips. "You fucking selfish, arrogant-" And England couldn't help biting at Scotland's lips to silence him, his words made the burning unbearable, _oh_ and now it _hurt_. Scotland choked out a strange noise, "-Beautiful, _beautiful_ , _beautiful_..."

 _He loved him, snapping words they didn't mean at each other until both of them began to believe them._

The heat flared, and now came tears, "Fuck, Scotland, I fucking hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I- fuck!" England sobbed, but he couldn't bring himself to care, burning marks into Scotland's neck with his breath, "I fucking love you so much!"

 _Oh how he loved him, gasping words they meant whole-heartedly until they began to lose their meaning at all._

And then the heat flared.

 _Ow_ , and it _burned_. It burned and it scarred and it _hurt_. It hurt so badly. But it didn't matter because amongst the burning bruises, Scotland choked, "I fucking love you too."

* * *

 ** _He loved Northern Ireland warm._**

* * *

 _He loved Northern Ireland with a gentle simmer, which seeped into their bones as they found themselves curled up on a sofa._

England let out a soft breath of contentment as North ran a warm hand through his hair, messing up the already out of order locks more. The fire crackled invitingly not too far away, dying down now that both of them were too content to move, leaving only a soft light and a gently tingle of _warm_ which wormed it's way directly into his chest.

 _He loved her with gentle caresses, and soft kisses, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck so that he knew that she wanted him to stay._

And it didn't take much then for her to reach up to him, the hand in his hair already working to pull him down into the affectionate embrace of her lips. She shifted, slowly, easily, a gentle familiarity in the way she pressed herself against his chest and wormed her tongue into his mouth. England was all too happy to indulge her, and her sweet lips, and her sweeter touches.

Oh, and his chest ached, too hot to be cool, but too cool to be hot, and so entirely _addictive_.

Perfect.

So perfect.

Oh what a perfect feeling swirling through his chest and stomach and up to his head to make his brain go fuzzy, and fluffy, and _warm_.

 _He loved her through gentle murmurs of sweet nothings._

"Oh, pet, you're so lovely," he would simper through her lips.

She smiled in return, a small thing, but the ache flared, and his head once again became fuzz. "You are gorgeous," she replied, her voice thick.

"You are magnificent."

"You're special."

"You're so loved."

And they didn't even notice that their hands had wandered until they were forced from their nothings by a soft gasp, or a softer hitch in breath. And then it was only a matter of time.

She kissed him slowly, lifting his shirt to let the cool air press in, but covered it with her body to keep him _warm_ , and he would do the same, until they were both bare before each other. Their hearts free for the other to do with as they pleased, and England lowered her onto her back and she reached up and wrapped herself around him so that he couldn't remember anything but bliss and comfort and _warmth_.

 _He loved her, and her moans were like a melody to his ears._

She laid her head back against the cushions, unafraid to show him her heart as she panted out noises of bliss which mirrored his own which he pressed against her neck and her chest and her lips. They were pressed into warmth until there was nothing but, and the gentle lilt of her moans became even more.

 _He loved how her laughs were like a grand symphony._

And she chirped out a laugh as she came, short and beautiful, and followed by another lilted moan as she leaned up and pressed kisses to his jaw, her lips leaving a warm trail in their wake. Another laugh, followed by a sigh, "You beautiful man, you don't even know how much I love you."

* * *

 ** _He loved Wales cool._**

* * *

 _He loved Wales with an easy breeze, which blew them toward each other for a blissful while until it also blew them apart._

Wales never stayed long, and when he did, they sat just comfortably away from each other. It was always just close enough and just far away to make England's heart ache for more, but he never knew how to ask him to close it. That cool space between them, only a few inches in reality, became miles in his mind.

 _He loved him with fleeting glances, and pecks to the lips, and all-too-short caresses that never that never went further than a simple touch._

Wales turned to him, seemingly deciding on something, with a crease in his brow and a firm set to his lips. And he reached out and ran his fingers over England's cheek, making his breath puff out in surprise even though England was sure Wales had sucked all of it from his lungs as soon as those cool fingers made contact with him. He made eye contact, and England was certain the air was gone that time. And then he leant forward.

And this kiss was nowhere near enough.

But this kiss would have to do.

The shiver of content that it gave him would keep him yearning for anything more than cool indifference. Keep him hoping that one day where a touch would linger long enough to become warm, that a kiss could start a fire rather than cause shivers.

 _He loved him in bursts and starts, always wondering how he loved him back._

He almost begrudged these moments. These moments that only served to remind him of what he couldn't have. Not fully. Not how he so desperately wanted. But he would never make the first move and neither would Wales want him to. So forever they were forced into this cool limbo.

 _He loved him, and his touches made his heart jolt with electricity._

And Wales brought his other hand up to England's other cheek, and brought their lips together another time, and England felt his heart pick up speed in misplaced hope, as the electricity of the kiss tried it's best to start it running. Such a beautiful feeling, but oh so bittersweet.

 _He loved him so much, his absence made his heart shiver in the presence of such an uneasy breeze._

After a moment, he pulled back, meeting England's eyes once again as if to say, "You've had enough for now."

And England wanted to protest but Wales was already gone. So all he could do was curl up against the shivers that still wracked his body and whisper, "Is it just me? Or do you love me too?"

* * *

 ** _He loved Ireland cold._**

* * *

 _He loved Ireland with a frozen indifference, which neither one of them was willing to see past nor acknowledge._

Ireland looked him over from the other side of the room, the space between them large no matter who you asked, yet England yearned for nothing more than to squeeze it down to nothing. Even so, it was not England's place to make the first move. He was to wait like always, in the cold, in the space that separates them, for Ireland. Because neither of them would allow themselves to be the one to admit that there was more than simple _want_ in their touches.

 _He loved him briefly, more fleeting that Wales, with a desire like Northern Ireland, yet somehow hotter that Scotland, because there's no doubt ice can burn as much as flame._

England was looking away as Ireland finally walked over, so he missed the soft footsteps that signalled his approach. But he didn't miss the way his hair was yanked, so his lips parted and a tongue could be stuck between them. He eagerly yielded, leaning back in his chair and allowing Ireland to push him back into it, climbing on his lap to press them together.

And there was nothing there.

Nothing there but _want_.

At least that's what they told themselves.

Because they couldn't love each other, not now, not in the past, not in the future, never could they allow themselves that simple act of warmth to their cold touches.

 _He loved him quick and messy and painfully._

Their tongues pressed together as hard as their groins, and there was no touching involved so much as mindless rutting, because it was their own pleasure they were searching for, the other's didn't matter. Not at all. This was _want_. Pure, cold, _want_ , and nothing else that fuelled their grasping, burning hands.

 _He loved him, even through the cold-shoulder that was turned his way, piercing him like a shard of ice._

And when they both let out their final grunt of mutual bliss, they remained stuck together, breathing icy air into each other's burned lips, before Ireland would stand. He would straighten himself out, and turn away without a word.

And England would never admit how much that hurt him.

 _He loved him, even though he couldn't admit that to himself._

He would watch as Ireland walked away and he would do nothing. He would ignore the icy coating on his heart, and the cold that seeped from his toes to his fingers. He would ignore the way his lips would form the words, " _I love you, my dear brother_."

Because acknowledging it would only hurt more.

* * *

He loved all of his loves differently.

Hot. Warm. Cool. Cold.

No matter how much it hurt.

And, oh, did it hurt.

It hurt like a hot poker to his side.

Like a warm slap to the face.

Like a cool punch to the gut.

And like an ice-cold knife through his chest.

But there was no doubt he loved them with all his heart, every fibre of his being burning, glowing, yearning, shivering with it. Clenching around his hot, warm, cool, cold heart every time he thought of any of them.

But, still he ignored the pain of it, his caution thrown to the wind, blowing away like dust because there's no way one's heart can traverse the loves he held and become anything but. He ignored the pain of it because he loved them.

Oh, he loved them so much.

So, so much.


End file.
